


We Interrupt This Broadcast

by Barkour



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Make-outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the surprises Battlestar Galactica had given Jaime, this had to be in the top ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Interrupt This Broadcast

**Author's Note:**

> Where does this fit into continuity? No-obody kno-ows.

Jaime couldn’t lie. Had he had his private moments with only the light of his laptop and an episode of _Battlestar Galactica_ for company? Yes. Yes, he had. Was he proud of it? No, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, either. A man’s relationship with science fiction was his own.

Still, he hadn’t expected it to move Bart. Not the way it moved him, anyway.

The facts: Jaime had set his laptop on his pillows, stacked at the head of the bed, so they could stretch out together to watch the miniseries in relative comfort. The room was dark; he’d closed the blinds. To better simulate the movie-going experience, he’d explained, and Bart had nodded, looking thoughtful.

Now, sprawled out on his stomach beside Jaime, Bart studied the screen. His fingertips pattered lightly on the bedspread. Jaime had long since tuned it out, but he snuck glances every now and then, to see if Bart startled or smiled or drew in breath where Jaime had done the same the first time he’d watched the miniseries years ago. Bart’s eyes flicked—to the side?

Self-conscious, Jaime fixed his gaze on the screen. Why would Bart watch him? His neck itched. He didn’t dare look at Bart again.

On screen, Number Six crawled on top of Gaius. Her shoulders bared. A length of thigh flashed. She moaned, and their breathing quickened; it rose like nearing thunder. Jaime sent a quick, wordless prayer up in thanks that Milagro was at a friend’s and his parents at work. His laptop had a port for only one set of headphones, and he had forgotten this scene.

The bed shifted beneath Jaime. Bart was kicking his feet rapidly. Jaime didn’t dare look. He was aware, suddenly, that their shoulders were touching, that his bed was not wide and they were very, very close. Bart’s hip had settled against Jaime’s waist. If Bart turned his head, his breath would run hot up against Jaime’s throat.

Gaius ran his hand down Six’s shoulder. She undulated over him, her dress slipped down her sloping back. Beneath the skin, as she rolled in place over Gaius, her vertebrae glowed red.

The last time Jaime had watched _Battlestar Galactica_ , he had watched it without an alien scarab fused to his spinal cord. The weight of it between his shoulders was sudden and acute.

_The Number Six has defective camouflage_ , noted the scarab. _If the sexual relationship is of long standing how has her cover not been compromised?_

He looked away from the screen, down to his rumpled, safe bedspread. Jaime went to rub at the back of his neck. A hand was already there. Startled, he turned his gaze up—and there was Bart, his breath warm on Jaime’s cheek. Cradling Jaime’s nape, Bart leaned in and pressed his mouth to Jaime’s. Bart’s lips were rough, but they were slick, too, as if Bart had licked them before reaching for Jaime. Bart tightened his fingers.

_The Impulse is attacking!_

A warning shiver jolted down Jaime’s spine, but it was the shuddering in his gut that struck him. Bart stroked his thumb up the slope of Jaime’s neck and drew back only so, to breathe, then leaned in again.

Jaime pulled back.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” asked Bart, smiling.

He filled Jaime’s frame, blocking out the laptop, the little light that snuck in through the drapes. Bart’s mouth worked over Jaime’s, not quickly, not crudely, but as if he were coaxing Jaime to tip his head and lean up. Bart closed on Jaime’s lower lip and drew gently on it once, a second time, his teeth a suggestion.

Jaime put his hands up between them and pushed Bart back. In the glow of the laptop’s screen, Bart blinked. His short, red-brown hair was in disarray, but only the same disarray it was always in. He frowned, his lips pushing out, nose pushing up.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Bart, brother,” said Jaime, his voice catching only because—he could still feel the way Bart’s mouth had parted there at the end, how the soft, wet skin on the inside of his lip had clung fractionally to Jaime when he withdrew. “I still don’t know why you started.”

Bart cocked his head. His frown deepened. “What—you don’t like me?”

“I—”

His breath stuck, too thick, in his throat. Bart’s eyes were lidded but unblinking. His chin had tipped down; he looked up as if through his lashes, which were too short for it to work. He looked up like this at Jaime, as if there were something about Jaime that made him want to look at Jaime like that. Did he like Bart? That wasn’t the question at all.

“That’s not the point,” said Jaime. “That is so not the point.”

“If you don’t like me, we can stop.”

Bart’s hand moved slowly down Jaime’s arm, Jaime’s _clothed_ arm. There was no good reason why he should break out in goosebumps under his hoodie. Nothing but how Bart slid his hand down, like he was thinking about it. Impulse thinking about something.

His heart was drumming way too fast for Jaime to keep up.

“I’m just trying to get this straight,” said Jaime. “What is this—is this your way of saying you like me? Do people just do stuff like this where you come from?”

“Why not? You might never get another chance.” Bart scooted closer. Their knees bumped. The lean line of Bart’s thigh pressed near. “Besides, that’s not really fair. You’re the one who wanted to watch porn.”

“Puh—” Jaime reeled back, indignant, more so when Bart grinned at him. “This isn’t porn! _Battlestar Galactica_ is a serious work. It revolutionized televised science fiction and helped revitalize—”

Bart kissed him again. Jaime breathed in, a shallow breath that did nothing to quell his racing heartbeat. Bart’s lips were salty, some remnant of the family size box of pretzels he’d eaten downstairs while Jaime tried to finish his homework. As Bart touched the back of Jaime’s hand, Jaime stared at Bart’s brow, the tiny scar that peeked out of the hair at his temple, the swell of Bart’s ear. Jaime’s chest ached. He let his eyelids flutter, then droop; then he closed his eyes and lifted his hand to cup Bart’s jaw.

_Dismiss him_ , warned the scarab, _and be done with it before you are further compromised. The Impulse is a threat to the mission._

Your mission, thought Jaime vengefully. He pushed up off his elbow and into Bart’s touch. Bart responded eagerly, pressing against Jaime so their legs folded his together. His fingers carded through Jaime’s hair; his lips yawned wide as he licked at Jaime’s mouth. Too fast—but Jaime only turned his face to better meet the onslaught. He tried to match Bart, if not in number then in strength, though it was tricky when their teeth mashed or their noses banged. Nicer when Bart sucked on Jaime’s lip and bit at it.

Bart slid his hand up the inside of Jaime’s hoodie. His hand was warm on Jaime’s belly, his fingernails drawing prickling trails through the thin black hair that ran down Jaime’s chest to his—Jaime sucked in a ragged breath.

“Wait,” he said.

Bart licked the side of Jaime’s nose, and that definitely shouldn’t have made Jaime’s groin tighten, sent heat flaring through his dick. Everything in Jaime’s life was so messed up these days.

“Bart,” he said, “Impulse, wait.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t think why. Jaime let his own want carry him forward to pepper kisses—clumsy kisses, he knew, sloppy kisses—along Bart’s smooth jaw. Bart’s hand ran up Jaime’s chest, bit by bit. His thumbnail found Jaime’s right nipple, and Bart scraped it.

Jaime yelped and pushed Bart away, himself back.

“Espera,” said Jaime in a tangled rush, “wait, hermano—”

“Why do I have to wait?” Bart reached for him again. “We like each other, so what’s the problem?”

His breath was hard to find again. “The problem is—”

_There is no practical value to a sexual relationship with the Impulse,_ said the scarab. _Eliminate the temptation._

“No!” said Jaime.

Bart’s hands left him.

“Sorry,” he said. His face had blanked. He backed, rising as he did so. “I didn’t know. I should probably just go.”

“No,” said Jaime again, lunging for Bart.

He caught him, just barely, and they tumbled together off the bed to the floor. Bart moved quickly, too quickly for Jaime to follow; they landed, and then Bart had struck Jaime in the clavicle, flipped him, and straddled him. Bart stared wide-eyed down at him.

“Um,” said Jaime. He tried to shift his hips away from the narrow press of Bart’s ass, pushing down on him. Jaime was a little freaked out to find that being flipped over like a pancake hadn’t tampered down the heat in his belly or the weight of his cock.

Bart blinked and then recoiled, his hands up before his chest in the universal signal for I-come-unarmed.

“Sorry,” he said, “automatic reflex, I wasn’t thinking—”

“It’s okay,” said Jaime, “no worries, just if you could maybe get off me—”

Still fidgeting, suddenly unsure, Bart made to rise. For a moment, he settled in Jaime’s lap. The scarab suggested it could always find a new host, if host Jaime Reyes chose to self-terminate.

“Sure, I—”

Bart paused. A funny look came over his face. His eyes narrowed.

“Hey,” he said.

“You’re the one who threw yourself all over me!” said Jaime.

“That’s not my dick,” said Bart, “ol’ buddy Blue, Beetle of Blue—” He pushed down experimentally.

Jaime shoved him off.

“You can’t just kiss somebody,” he shouted. “Dude—hermano—that’s not cool, it’s not like you even know how I feel—”

“Do you like me?” asked Bart. He was intent again, with his knees up and spread before him.

“Well,” said Jaime. “It’s kind of. Like.”

_Silence,_ said the scarab. _You would do well to hide your emotions so that you do not encourage—_

Fuck that.

“Yeah,” said Jaime, maybe louder than he meant to but _fuck_ that, “yeah, I do like you, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate being jumped on my bed by someone who doesn’t even—I mean, I don’t even know if you—”

“I like you,” said Bart, “I like you, I like you, I like you—”

“So—” Jaime struggled to think. “So why couldn’t you just say so?”

“I _am_ saying so,” said Bart. “That’s what I’m doing right now. I figured you’d figure it out when we were interfacing.”

“Inter—wait, is that seriously what you call it?” Jaime made a face. “That’s such a cliché, I—”

“What? It makes sense,” said Bart. “My face and your face, it’s an interfacial experience, plus it’s like if you had a program and you—”

“I get it,” said Jaime, “I get it. I know what interfacing means, that’s not--I’m not talking about that, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I’m saying—”

Bart broke in. “So you don’t want to interface?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Jaime.

“So you do want to interface,” said Bart.

He hadn’t said that either, but he found he couldn’t say it after all. Not when Bart was gazing so hopefully at him, Bart’s mouth still red and his legs spread like that, to show that he was—he was also—Jaime swallowed.

Bart smiled. “Totally crash.”

He hooked his fingers under his shirt and pulled it up over his head. Jaime’s breath caught again—the narrow musculature of Bart’s gut and chest flashed, his abdominals tightening up as he lifted his arms—and then Bart got stuck. He slumped.

“I thought this would look cooler in my head,” Bart said, muffled through the cotton.

“It looks cool from here, hermano,” said Jaime, even as he started to crack up. “You look—really crash. You’re totally crashing the mode right now.”

Bart sighed and started to vibrate, his edges blurring.

“No, no,” said Jaime, grabbing for him. “I can help. You don’t have to vibrate out of your clothes. I’m not sure I want you setting that precedent…”

He fumbled for the neckline, working his fingers under it. Bart went very still. His throat worked briefly, muscles tightening beneath Jaime’s knuckles, and then that, too, eased. Carefully, Jaime pulled the shirt free.

It struck Jaime like a blow, how Bart emerged squinting, his hair tousled, his lips jutting and parted, his chest pale with too little sunlight and his shoulders lined with sinewy muscle. He liked Bart. He’d known he did, but the thought of it cut through him with unexpected sharpness.

“Thanks,” said Bart. “I should return the favor, right? One good deed deserves another. That’s what Aunt Joan says.”

He reached for Jaime.

“Maybe,” Jaime said, “maybe not,” and he was thinking of Six’s spine gleaming red through her skin.

“No way!” said Bart. “I took my shirt off so you have to take yours off, too. That’s only fair.”

His hands slipped up Jaime’s sides, beneath his hoodie. Bart’s fingers shivered; his palms trembled. Jaime felt it vibrating in his bones.

“I,” said Jaime. He’d grabbed Bart’s elbows. He didn’t know what to do with them.

The scarab said, _Sexual congress will not assist—_

And the breath, already so shaky in him, ran out of Jaime. As Bart, smiling so his eyes creased, trailed his hands down Jaime’s back to the curve of his waistband, Jaime had a thought of Bart arching into Jaime’s hands, of Bart reaching up from Jaime’s bed to grasp Jaime’s shoulders in his hands so tightly Jaime felt it down to the bone, of Bart smiling when he leaned down to kiss Jaime.

The front door slammed.

They both froze there on the floor, Bart with his hands still up Jaime’s hoodie and Jaime still holding Bart by his arms. Then Bart shrugged and made to bite Jaime’s chin. Jaime shoved him off, away, away!

“Oh, my God,” said Jaime, “ese, that’s my mom, _get your shirt on now_.”

“Why?” Bart drew in close again, his smile sneaky. “We can lock your door, amigo—”

“No, we cannot,” said Jaime as loudly as he dared, “you do not lock doors in this household, _you have superspeed, why is your shirt not on_.”

“But—”

“Now!” said Jaime, throwing Bart’s shirt in his face. “Right now! I’m not messing with you!”

Bart dressed sulkily, glowering at Jaime’s bedroom door as he did so. The sneak was dressing slow, too, taking his time shaking the folds out of his shirt, brushing lint off the sleeves, slipping it back on like he was doing a strip tease in reverse, and Jaime was unmoved, he did not care, he was not at all paying any attention whatsoever to how Bart’s shoulders bunched as he dragged the shirt back over his head, because Jaime had like thirty seconds to get his dick to get down and stay there.

_You will not do this again,_ said the scarab.

“No way,” Jaime shot back, furious that—this wasn’t even remotely the scarab’s business, what he did with someone he liked, someone who liked him, who wanted to stick his hands up Jaime’s shirt. “You don’t get to decide that, and you know what, I say we are definitely doing this again.”

Bart fist-pumped. “Yes! Hermano! I knew you liked me!” He beamed at Jaime, but, thank God, he did not throw himself on Jaime again.

Probably Bart had also heard Jaime’s mom on the stairs.

She knocked at then opened his door. Light from the hallway spilled into Jaime’s room, illuminating them where they sat together on the floor by his bed.

Mom arched her eyebrows. “What are you boys doing?”

“Watching TV,” said Jaime. “Bart’s never seen _Battlestar Galactica_ before, so I thought somebody had to show him.”

“It revolutionized televised science fiction,” said Bart, straight-faced.

“So my son has told me,” said Mom. She pointed to the bed behind them. “Well, your laptop’s back there, Jaime.”

Jaime did not cover his face, though he did look back at his laptop so he didn’t have to meet his mother’s eyes.

“Just try to keep it down,” she said, moving to close the door. “I don’t want to hear any banging around up here.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Bart chirped, saluting. “Operation Keep It Down has commenced!”

She rolled her eyes, but Mom was smiling when the door closed. Jaime gave in and covered his face.

“Oh, God. Oh, my God,” he said.

“Your mom’s so crash,” said Bart, “I don’t know why you always act like you’re riding the mode when I talk to her.”

“Do not talk about the mode around my mom,” Jaime said, glaring at Bart between his fingers.

Bart shrugged. “All right. Whatever you say, my man. Hey!” He brightened. “You want to interface?”

Jaime dropped his hands. “No! I don’t want to interface!”

“Why not!”

“Because my mom is downstairs!”

Bart sighed and fell back against the bed, his shoulders drooping, his knees turned sadly out. Jaime scrubbed at his head and thought, well, maybe—he cut it off there.

“We could finish watching BSG.”

“Fine,” said Bart glumly.

Jaime patted his shoulder, trying not to remember how Bart’s shoulders had arched as he made to strip his shirt off. Bart turned to him. Their breath mingled. Bart shifted his weight; their hips brushed.

“Or maybe we could do something else,” said Jaime.

“We could go fight some bad guys?” Bart suggested.

“Sure,” said Jaime, “yeah. Let’s go do that. Let’s fight some bad guys.”

“Save some babies?”

“Help somebody’s grandma cross the road,” said Jaime.

Bart nodded, his stubby eyelashes falling over his green eyes and his lower lip pushing out.

Jaime just gave up. Ignoring his mother changing in her room, ignoring the drums signaling a pitched space battle in BSG, and ignoring the scarab’s hiss that he was making a tactical error with serious consequences—well, ignoring all that, Jaime caught Bart and held his face between his hands and bent to kiss him, just because he wanted to.

“I totally knew it,” Bart crowed between kisses. “I knew you liked me. I knew it.”

“Man, do you ever shut up?” said Jaime, and when Bart laughed—eyes flicking down, the kiss-bruised corner of his mouth flicking up—and said, “Well—” then Jaime kissed him again. Maybe it wasn't what he'd meant to do, but someone had to do it. Why shouldn’t Jaime?


End file.
